


Conjugal Visits

by HyperionScience



Series: Death Row [2]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dream Sex, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, Mentions of Handsome Jack, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Shameless Smut, Unsafe Sex, Video Killed The Radio Star
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 13:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19085785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyperionScience/pseuds/HyperionScience
Summary: After he fights the Vault Hunters, Wilhelm returns to Lynchwood





	1. On Ice

**Author's Note:**

> A successor to Death Row, in three acts.
> 
> Started on May 28th, 2019. 
> 
> Author’s Note: I’ve taken a lot of liberties with Wilhelm’s appearance, going off of what I thoughtlessly established in Death Row (The launching point for this work, go check it out if you haven't yet.) and his canonical appearances in both Borderlands 2 and Borderlands: The Pre-Sequel. It was difficult to decide what to keep, what to change, and what to disregard entirely. I personally chose to avoid the loader legs, opting for something that more closely resembled the Cyber Commando skill tree. In this work in particular, I imagine him being equipped with something similar to a Dahl powersuit. Also, for my own personal preferences (And Nisha’s as well, I’m sure) I am not alluding to the voice modulator at all. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy. As of the writing of this note (May 30th, 2019) I haven’t yet decided exactly how much smut will be in this. It’s hovering between a hurt/comfort and an angst-fuck, and I’m still not 100% sure where it will land as I rarely plot my first drafts. Oops.
> 
> June 02 update: I am trying to write a dark and sexy dream sequence where Video Killed the Radio Star is playing in the background. I may cut it. I absolutely won’t cut it. My sincerest apologies to The Buggles.
> 
> Thanks to ErroneousOphelia, for being my muse, for constantly reassuring me, and for accounting for about half the views on Death Row. I love you.

Chapter 1: On Ice

 

" _ Running Diagnostic. Echolog black box recording." _

 

 Wilhelm groaned. The ground was frigid under his back, his own blood rapidly cooling in a puddle beneath him. How many times had he been shot? He had lost count. His mouth tasted like blood, and a little bit like vomit. Had he thrown up? Hadn’t he been on a train? 

 

 Oh right. The power core. That thing that Jack wanted the vault hunters to get so badly. It was part of some plan so important he had been poisoned about it. It swam in his memory, just out of reach. He was supposed to be dead.

 

 And to think yesterday had gone so well.

 

 A faint hum sounded in his ears, and he laid as still as he could while the diagnostic ran. He was in pain, and lay in silent delirium watching the rakk circle overhead, straying closer on every pass. He reached for his pistol and found that it was missing. A discarded Dahl repeater lay a few feet away. 

 

 Damned Vault Hunters. 

 

 " _ Diagnostic Complete. Conditions critical, please seek out the nearest repair surveyor." _

 

 He resented the smug, chipper voice that all Hyperion tech seemed to have. He would review the official diagnostic later, provided he lived that long.

 

 When he had been a sickly child, it had been up to him to run his own diagnostic, and he had gotten quite good at it. Starting at his feet, first left, then right, so on and so forth. He had been told it was to explain to the doctors just exactly what hurt, which was usually everything. Right now it was everything. Except…

 

 "My left leg is missing. Gone at the knee. I can't feel it at all." He rasped, to nobody. The rakk overhead seemed, warily, to fly a little higher. 

 

 If he saw his leg on the black market tomorrow, it would really be personal. The cash was only pocket change, his gun he could forgive. He'd stolen his fair share of money and firearms in Jack's employ. But even he drew the line at taking other people's cybernetics, as envious as he may have been of them.

 

 His shoulder turret was gone too. Damned Vault Hunters. 

 

 He continued his diagnostic, proceeding from his left leg (absent) to his right (numb, one shallow bullet wound on the outer part of his thigh, stopped mostly by his boot.). 

 

 His upper legs (left bruised, right broken, both relatively bullet free), he decided, hurt the least. He moved on. Three bullets were embedded in the armor plate that hung from his belt (The vault hunters, at least, had the decency to stop trying to shoot a man's dick off after 3 failed attempts), though there was a concerning amount of blood soaking through his shirt about three inches to the left of it (Nerve Damage? He could barely feel it.)

 Moving up his torso (Left ribs almost terminally bruised, though his shield and jacket had blocked most of the bullets, they still packed a punch on impact), and into his shoulders (Two shots through the right, turret missing. He still had his right hand though, luckily enough.), he moved his head to the side (Neck stiff, spine still intact), experimentally. The effect was dizzying, and he realized he had lost a lot of blood. From here though, he could see the plateau, the assortment of guns left behind, blood on the ice. He could see what remained of his personal effects, his shattered and discarded turret, his refurbished power suit. It was a good thing it hadn’t collapsed on him. He blinked. Sitting on the ice about ten feet away was his echo device.   

 

 Moving that far would be challenging. It might kill him. But he had to call Jack, and get back to Helios.

 

 Jack. That bastard. 

 

 Using the leg still attached to his body, which he managed to raise enough to plant his foot firmly on the ground, he propelled himself slowly across the frozen ground. Bullet casings and bits of shrapnel caught in his clothes, and in worse cases, his skin, making him grit his teeth. (Somehow, only one was broken). He kept this up, inching slowly towards his echo device, until the rectangular box was in his hand. He pressed the call button. 

 

 A long silence followed as he wondered what exactly to say. He wondered if she was even still alive. 

 

 "Nisha. Come pick me up." 

 

 He let his finger fall off the button, and swore. He didn't want her to see him like this. 

 

 His back was sore and stiff (Were the sharp pains exit wounds, or had he been shot in the back as well?), his arms weak and numb from being linked to the powersuit. His face was banged up (At least one black eye, nose likely broken), but it was nothing compared to the back of his head, which he worried might be damaged beyond repair.

 

 He swore again, realizing that his official diagnostics report would be sent through Hyperion tech. If Nisha didn't hurry, Jack might send someone back to finish the job. 

 

 It was a worry that would have to wait, he decided, as the weight of the world felt all the heavier on his shoulders after his ten foot journey. He pressed a button on his echo device, two drones coming alive in blue light. Wolf buzzed off into the sky, keeping the circling rakk at bay while Saint laid at his side, trying to digistruct him back together. It might be futile, but he liked the company, and the ground beneath him was cool enough to stave off the fever for at least a little while. He allowed himself to close his eyes (One mechanical, one organic, both still in his head), despite knowing he may never open them again. 

 But only for a moment. 

 


	2. Blood and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's sex in this one, so... Yeah.

Chapter 2: Blood and Fire

 

 When Wilhelm opened his eyes again, he was moving.

 

 The bandit technical was not a car meant for finesse. It was not a suitable replacement for an ambulance. It was a vehicle that would make a monster truck shudder. It was a hulking thing, big enough to seat two in front, and as many people who cared to hop in the back. Its tires were huge and treaded. Most were outfitted with turrets larger than any reasonable person would know what to do with, or in rarer cases, a catapult. The bandit technical was a force to be reckoned with. 

 

 It rolled over a sand dune. Wilhelm felt the air leave his lungs. 

 

 The pain was nearly unbearable, the dirt and grime of the truck bed sanding away at his torn and bloodied skin, his head repeatedly thumping against the metal of it, threatening to beat him to a pulp. Above him, a barrel descended, nearly low enough that he could reach out and touch it until it’s mechanism released it and sent it hurtling out in front, landing with boom somewhere in the dust. His ears rang, loudly. 

 

 He couldn’t move his head enough to see who had picked him up, as shockingly, he was alone in the back of the vehicle. Was he enough metal at this point that he was salvage, or was the Hyperion uniform enough to bring him in for a bounty? He wasn’t sure. He longed then, for the sweet cool of the plateau, for the stillness of near-death, for the peaceful scavengers circling ever closer. 

 

 The technical jumped as it moved from coarse sand onto what passed for a paved road on Pandora. Wilhelm’s head thumped dully against the truck bed. Now that he thought about it, he realized he must be tied down. It would explain how he was still somehow in the exact center of the truck bed, rather than lying face down somewhere in the dust. If he had gone through the trouble of hauling a corpse into a truck, he supposed, he would make sure it wasn’t going anywhere either. 

 

 He also would have made sure it was dead, though.

 

 The ride was a little smoother from then on, though the technical took on speed. Wilhelm watched the sky streak by overhead. Luckily Elpis was low enough on the horizon this time of year that he wouldn’t have to see Helios. He realized that he felt betrayed, which felt odd, to him. After all, he was only a mercenary. He didn’t do contracts, he didn’t do shift work. He killed who he was paid to. He had been working for Jack for almost 3 years, though. That was a long time for someone like him to do anything. He didn’t like to commit to things, especially things like Jack, like Hyperion. 

 

 He realized he wouldn’t be paid for the train job, since he was supposed to be dead. Damned Vault Hunters. 

 

 He tried his best not to be lulled into sleep, as he found himself starting to drift off, despite the pain. The ropes keeping him tied into the vehicle dug into his skin, surely to the point of drawing blood. He wondered how much longer it would be before someone realized he was alive. Maybe they knew, and wanted him that way. 

 

 Minutes passed and turned to what felt like hours. His ears slowly stopped ringing, settling into a dull throb that filled his head, which felt like it was stuffed and mounted. The paved road turned abruptly to gravel, and the technical drew slowly to a halt. A car door opened, and then slammed shut. Here it comes. 

 

 Footsteps on a dirt road, was he imagining them? Surely he couldn’t hear something so faint over the throbbing of his pulse. The shocks creaked as someone climbed into the back, the driver’s feet landing solidly on the metal truck bed. Wilhelm tried to raise his head, and regretted it, letting it fall heavily back to the ground.

 

 “God damn, you look like shit.” Nisha chuckled. He felt her step in, her boots planted firmly on either side of his torso. She crouched down, deftly untying the ropes that held him in place, not looking at him. 

 

 “Nisha.”   
  


 “Save your breath, not sure how many you have left.”    
  
 She worked on the knots as he lay there, and he heard another car door open, then close.    
  
 “Hope you don’t mind I brought backup.” 

 

  Another set of boots hopped into the truck bed, and Wilhelm felt two hands slip under his shoulders as Nisha moved to open the hatchback. He looked up into the face of a young man in a cowboy hat. Her Deputy? Did Lynchwood have one of those?

 

 A sharp pain flooded his body as he was moved, Nisha lifting by the leg, the deputy lifting under his shoulders. Teetering of the edge of consciousness, they made their slow and painful way into Nisha’s home, where he had been less than 24 hours earlier. They laid him down in the bed, and he inhaled deeply despite the pain in his ribs. The bed sheets smelled warm, like waking from a nap in midsummer. They smelled of dust drifting lazily through a beam of sunshine. They smelled like Nisha, and a little bit like himself, as well.

 

 He was yanked from his reverie by the prick of a needle, the syringe of familiar red liquid being plunged into his arm. He winced, though he knew from experience that the stuff would kick in soon. Already, he felt less of a throb in his head, less of an ache in his ribs. Though immense, the pain was describable, now. He started at his feet, left missing, right numb. 

 

 He allowed his thoughts to wander, listening to the hushed conversation Nisha held with her deputy outside the room’s open door, their words lost somewhere in the warm, stagnant air of the bedroom. The mugginess was almost too much, but now that he was, at least, in no immediate danger of dying, it felt familiar and safe. The sheets were soft beneath him, and he felt himself lulling into sleep.

 

 “Here, let me take your jacket off.” Nisha says, somewhere beyond the veil of near-sleep. He felt her hands, softer than he remembered them being the night before, lifting the heavy fabric away from his chest. She unzipped it, then unclipped the armored belt around his waist, the ammo belt slung around his shoulder. She took his hands in hers, one by one, carefully peeling off his heavy gloves. 

 

 “No wonder you’re burning up.”

 

 She stops talking to him, then, busying herself with dabbing a damp rag on his forehead. It left his face, and he listened to the sounds of her wringing it out through his stupor. It stung as she pressed it to his shoulder, the cloth cool on his skin. He hadn’t felt her unbutton his shirt. He drifted like this for some time, as Nisha sat silently, occasionally wincing when she would press just a little too hard, or when she actually fished into him to pull shrapnel from his flesh. 

 

 By the time she had finished, letting the washcloth fall limply into the bowl of water, he had drifted so far into sleep that even the sounds she made couldn’t rouse him, though he was aware of them. He felt her hands on his chest once again, carefully buttoning his shirt back up, and then on his face, brushing his thinning hair away from his forehead. 

 

 “Glad you’re not going anywhere, big guy. I don’t mind having you around.” Her voice was a whisper, tentative and soft, as if she wasn’t sure she wanted him to hear her. Her lips brushed his forehead, they were dry, as if she had been biting them, and the ends of her hair tickled his cheeks. She sat up, then stood, and with every step she took out of the room, he knew he wanted her closer. He listened, through the haze of sleep, as the heels of her boots tapped the floor, growing ever softer. Wilhelm wasn’t awake to hear the click of the door.

 

* * *

 

 

 The room was dark and still in the deep lunar night. He was laying in bed above the Up and Over in Concordia, listening to the distant rucus of lunar music from the DJs downstairs. The sound was soothing, like hearing someone familiar watching television in the next room, and it put his mind at ease. Funny though, Boom and Rang had never played Video Killed the Radio Star.

 

 The door to his room creaked open, and outside the streets of New Haven were ablaze. Nisha stepped into the room, white ash clinging to her wide-brimmed hat, to her long blue duster. Her eyes seemed to glow in the dark, and in seconds she was in front of him, smelling of gunmetal and of flames. She knelt over him in the bed, as she would in a distant future in the back of a dingy old truck, as he bled out into the rusted crevices of the flatbed. Her gaze pierced through him, the flames from outside trickling slowly over the threshold, licking at the threadbare carpet. 

 

 “ _ You were the first one.” _ She mouthed, her voice not her own, but instead the sweet sound of distant music. 

_ You were the last one.  _

 

 Was he naked before? He was now, unashamed of it in the dark room. Her hands were on his chest, firm and insistent. No matter how he looked at her, he could only see her eyes and their supernatural gleam, as if they had been all she needed to start the roaring fire outside. She reached up to grip his hair, and his worldview spun as she slammed his head down against the hard floor of Jack’s office, her hat hiding her face from the light of the moon below. 

 

 She had him by the neck, both hands pressing against his Adam’s apple as she backed him towards the desk. Wilhelm tried to swallow, and found he could not. Her duster was open now, and she wore nothing beneath it. Her breasts fit perfectly in the palms of his hands, but she had him by the wrists now, and the desk beneath him was ablaze. The flames kissed his bare back, how had she managed to lay him down flat? She raked her nails down his chest, leaving burning trails wherever she touched. 

 

 She was on him now, with her hands in his hair, violently tugging him towards her. Her thighs were on either side of his head, his hands on the gentle curves of her hips. He breathed in the smell of her, like warm sheets, like dust in a stagnant room, like blood and like fire. He kissed her, opened-mouthed, savoring the taste of her. Nisha’s thighs tightened until he felt like his skull might give way, and he relished the dizzying sensation of it all, her scent, her taste, his lightheadedness. 

 

 He was painfully hard, and a small piece of himself wondered if he was really so aroused, or if it was a figment of the dream. 

 

 The flames crept ever closer to them, nipping at his toes, singeing the ends of Nisha’s hair. She was grinding against him in earnest now, her fingers curling around the desk’s edge in obscene pleasure as she rubbed herself against his open mouth. Her hat tumbled off her head and onto the floor, which was now consumed by flames. Her body, thin and toned, was almost surreal in the glow of the flames, each curve and angle kissed by light that would have otherwise seemed oppressive. 

 

 She moaned loudly, like the sweet sound of music from another room. She was sitting upright now, he could see her looming over him, her thick patch of pubic hair tickling his nose. She ran her hands through her hair, writhing in pleasure as he drank her in, her thighs maintaining their vice-like grip on his head. His thoughts raced by a mile a minute, though they were all of her, and when she came, screaming above the noise of the bar, above the music, above the distant sound of a moving truck, he followed her lead, head swimming from lack of air. 

 

* * *

 

 

 Wilhelm awoke to pain, and to find that he had cum in his pants. He turned his head to look outside. He had clearly been asleep for some time, as the sun was just starting to set outside the open window, a gentle breeze blowing in, rustling the curtains and disturbing the dust. Had all of Lynchwood been able to hear him tossing and turning? Had he been moaning her name? 

 

 With great effort, and despite the protest from his body, he managed to sit up, shedding his heavy jacket as well as his shirt. There was another vial on the bedside table, red liquid, Anshin logo, needle on the end. He picked it up, plunging it into his shoulder. It almost didn’t hurt to set the empty vial back where he had found it. He looked to see if anyone had brought him some food as well, but found nothing else on the table but a thick layer of dust. 

 

 He tentatively moved his right leg, finding that the pain of the break was now a lot milder, a distant thing. He wouldn’t attempt to walk on it yet, of course, especially given that he was still unsure of the whereabouts of its metallic counterpart. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, and they squeaked a little in protest. Getting his hands on some WD-40, or rather, getting some WD-40 on his hands, was low on his list of priorities. What he really needed was a cleaner, more comfortable pair of pants. 

 

 He wondered when Nisha would be back, and realized that she had clearly already been in the room to drop off the rejuvenator. Had he been caught in the fitful rows of his dream when she had come in? He felt even grosser than before, ashamed of the conjugal visits she paid him in his dreams. He sat up a little more, moving his pillow behind his head. It was nice to feel a little bit stronger, and at least from here he could watch the sun sinking over the horizon, casting it’s haze over the desert outside. He sat, transfixed by it, until the last signs of the day disappeared behind Pandora, leaving the room in darkness. 

 The door creaked, the clicking of boots on hardwood tip-toeing in. 

 

 “Hey, look at you, sitting up like nothing even happened.” Nisha smiled, sitting down on a wooden chair which she pulled over from the corner of the room. She handed him a glass of water, which he accepted gratefully. 

 

 “Thanks.”   
  
 “Don’t mention it.” She was dressed down, a little, clearly off shift as the sheriff, at least for the time being. Her holster and duster were absent, and her hair was all messed up, having been under her hat all day. “How do you feel?”   
  


 “Like shit. A smaller amount of shit than before, though.” 

 

 “Good.”

 

 The cool night air did little to lift the mood of the quiet room. There was something, Wilhelm knew, teetering at the tip of her tongue, something she wanted to leave unsaid. He could sense it in the tension of her shoulders, in the way she leaned forward on her chair, legs spread comfortably, but her feet planted firmly on the floor. He could feel her gaze on him.    
  
 “Wilhelm.” She said, and her voice was soft, like someone familiar watching tv in the room over.    
  
 She climbed onto the bed, sitting carefully next to him, her hand gentle on his cheek. She was looking at him, a small smile on her face. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said she looked vulnerable. 

 

 “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

 

 “I am too.” 

 


	3. Summer Breeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is just all sex.

Chapter 3: Summer Breeze 

 

 Time passed slowly there, though Wilhelm was soon well enough to be helped through the small house by the Deputy, whose name he learned was Winger. During the day, he would sit on the back porch as Nisha and Winger went about their usual business, idly thumbing the pages of a book or tapping at the screen of his echo device. The latter usually sat dejectedly at his side, growing stale from lack of use. Jack wasn’t even bothering to track it, and the thought infuriated him, though he indignantly reminded himself that there was no loyalty in the life of a mercenary if there was no money to secure it.

 

 He sighed. Nisha’s backyard was extraordinarily mundane. Where he would have anticipated guns, guns, more guns, and maybe a gallows, there was instead a clothesline and a washbucket. A hammock was strung up between two trees, swaying gently in the warm Lynchwood wind. There were no torture devices, no spoils of war. No gifts from Jack, either, he had noticed. Aside from the beer in her fridge, the home was devoid of any sign she had ever worked for him at all. It did very little to ease his mind, idyllic as it may all seem on the surface.

 

 The hot day faded slowly to a cool summer night, the muggy breezes of midday turning cold, making him shiver. How long had it been since Nisha had walked into his room, since she had fixed him with those eyes? Days? A week? It all seemed to blend together here, each sunset just as breathtaking as the last. Nisha and Winger would arrive home in the cool evening, and the deputy would help Wilhelm inside before heading off into the night, his worn brown hat hanging low over his face. Nisha would sit across from him at the old wooden table, and they would make idle small talk until she helped him limp down the hallway to his bed.

 

 That night was like any other, Wilhelm sat facing her, with his back to the door, as she walked him through the ins and outs of her day. He liked to hear it, but could not help but let his mind wander to what they would be doing at this table had he not nearly lost his life. The barrel of her gun pressed to his chest, her hands choking the life out of him, perhaps even things he had wished for in the confines of dreams.

 

 “Everything alright?” She asks, pulling him from his reverie. She is leaning forward at the table, her chin resting on one of her hands. Her hat sat atop her head at a casual sort of angle, pulled back and away from her face, her bangs hanging limply over one side of her face.

 

 “Hm? Yeah.” He replied, drumming on the table with metal fingers, caught up in a beautiful daydream, one where this was all he had ever wanted, where he was all she had ever wanted, and where he would never have to follow orders from anyone else ever again. “Why do you ask?”

 

“You seem distant. Did something happen today?”

 

 “Nope. Nothing ever happens here.”  


 “Isn’t that what you need right now?”   


 He didn’t know.

 

 She stood up then, walking over and offering him her hand. He turned his head to look at her, sighing as he wrapped her hand in his, standing with her assistance. The hallway to his bedroom seemed longer and longer every day. Nisha set him on the bed, and left without a word. When she returned, she was carrying his left leg.  


 “Found this for you.” She said, setting it next to him, clicking the button on his echo device that summoned his surveyors. Saint settled in next to him, working quickly at reattaching the metal limb to the rest of him, and it minutes, it was as if it had never left. 

 “Where’d you find it?” He asked, his echo device fizzling, leaving them alone in the room once more.   


 “In the train wreckage. Not quite sure how it got there. Suspect someone tried to steal it, then figured it wasn’t worth the effort.” She shrugged, patting it. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

 

 “Thanks.” He smiled a little. Nisha reached out to touch his cheek, as she had nights before. Her hand was warm, her gaze was soft.  


 “Looks like your beard is starting to grow back.”   
  
 He nodded. “Looks like it. Guess that means I should be on my way, soon. Seeing as I’m repaired, and all.”

 

 “Stay.” She said. It wasn’t a question.

 

 She stood, walking to the window and sliding it closed. She drew the dingy, sun-bleached yellow curtains closed, and darkness fell over the room. Wilhelm inhaled, exhaled, felt the rise and fall in his chest, ensuring he was alive. She was a vision of beauty, silhouetted by the tiny amount of light coming in through the curtains. She shed her duster, then her shirt, dropping them on the floor as she approached the bed. She unbuckled her belt, slipping it off in a graceful motion before folding it in half, slapping the leather against her palm. Wilhelm shuddered.

 

 “Don’t think you can escape the law that easily.” Her smirk was wide. She stepped out of her rough jeans, leaving her naked aside from her undergarments, and in seconds she was in front of him, lifting his chin up so that his gaze met hers.

 

 “Please.”

 The belt cracked as it made contact with his clothed inner thigh, the sting a welcome feeling. He shed his shirt, along with the doubts the days had brought, his gaze never faltering.

 

 “Please, Miss Kadam.” He corrected. He didn’t need to be asked, not after last time.

 

 Her hands were unyielding, but not forceful as she pushed him backward onto the bed, carefully straddling him, evidently taking care not to hurt him.

 

 “Why don’t you tell me about that dream of yours, big guy?”

 

 “So, you knew about that.” He murmured, trying to play off the tenseness that came over him. Of course she had known about that, She could read him like a book, she always could. She ran her hands gently over his chest, settling them on his still tender sides. The insinuation of her nails was enough to send a shiver through him, and she smiled at him in the darkness.

 

 The belt came down on his bare shoulder, and he gritted his teeth, his hips bucking up against her in spite of himself. Nisha leaned in, running her tongue over the tender spot, and when she began to suck gently at his already inflamed skin, he found himself telling it all to her in a hushed and hasty whisper.

 

 She grabbed his wrists, pinning them above his head as she moved up his body, soon kneeling on the bed, a knee on either side of his head. She sat down slowly, carefully, muffling him in her clothed labia, shifting her hips to settle in, a soft moan slipping from her lips. Wilhelm let himself relax in the gentle hug of her thighs, an odd sense of security washing over him. The smell of her was intoxicating.

 

 She released his hands for only a moment, to grab her belt and use it to secure both of his hands to the old headboard. She slipped out of her underwear, removing her bra as she sat down over his open mouth.

 

 She was practically dripping now, and he began to lick up what he could, moving his tongue in bold deliberate strokes from her pussy to her clitoris, pausing there to suck on the delicate mound of flesh. Above him Nisha moaned, her hands balling up in his hair, pulling him closer. Her hips ground down on his face, her thighs tightening around him despite the itch of his stubble.

 

 He tugged on his restraints, wishing that he could hold her, could reach up and cup her breasts. She slapped at his hands, squeezing him all the tighter. He was expected to behave. He was sure he could manage that, especially since she began to pick up the pace, riding his face as though she intended to break him. They both knew she already had.

 

 It was much better than in his dream, he decided. The leather dug into his wrists, and above him Nisha moaned in her own voice, running her fingers through his hair, and occasionally grabbing a fistful. He smelled the room faintly beyond the sweet musk of her, the sheets soft beneath his bare back. It felt familiar, and comfortable.

 

His moans were muffled by her soft lips, and he found himself holding his breath, eyes rolling back and closing as she continued her forceful grinding, using one arm to brace herself on the headboard. The entire bed squeaked as it moved beneath them.  

 

 She shuddered to a sudden climax above him, making him all the more aware of his own need through the haze of breathlessness. She lifted her hips, and he gasped for air, his hands freed from the thick leather belt with a few deft movements. He sat up, gripping her hips as she moved down his body. She unbuttoned his pants as he kissed at the nape of her neck, his arms wrapping around her middle, pulling her close.

 

 His cock freed, she wrapped her legs around his waist, sliding onto him. Her nails grasped at his back as he nipped and sucked at her neck, at her collarbone. They moved together in quiet ecstasy, and he felt her shiver as he kissed right below her ear. She was surprisingly tender, now, her makeshift flogger forgotten. Wilhelm would be happy either way. She was warm and wet around him, and he had never heard his name sound sweeter than the way she moaned it now.

 

 He placed a hand between her shoulder blades, carefully moving forward to lay her down on her back. It felt strange to be above her in bed, a strange shift of power that he could not, or rather would not, use.

 

 “Nisha…” His voice was a whisper against her ear, a question, a promise. She dug her nails into him, keeping up the sweet motion of her hips. She whimpered softly, needily.

 

 “Wilhelm, please…” She moaned, and he bit his lip. He had never heard her beg before, and he knew that he would be chasing that breathy plea for the rest of his life. He pressed himself closer to her, they were chest to chest now, and he kissed her as gently as he knew how to, holding her tightly against him.

 

 Her hands found his hair again, and he moaned against her lips as she pulled at it. They pulled away for only moments at a time to catch their breath in great, gasping breaths, before falling into the kiss once again. Nisha was writhing on his cock, the bed frame creaking beneath them, Their breathing, their voices, the slap of skin on skin rising to what felt to Wilhelm like a deafening crescendo.

 

 He buried his face in the crook of her neck, marking her flawless skin with deep red bites. She cried his name, her grip on his hair tightening, and he came along with her, lost in the sight of her eyes rolling back, in the smell of her hair, in her slick walls pulsing around him.

 

 It took all his strength not to collapse on top of her, but he managed to pick her up, her body trembling against him. He laid back, taking a deep breath, letting her settle in on top of him. Her head rested on his chest, her fingers intertwining with his.

 

 The room was still now, and comfortably silent. With the window closed, the smell of sex hung heavily in the air, the room once again warm, almost muggy. Wilhelm reached over, drawing a sheet over them both. A faint ray of moonlight crept in through the curtains.

 

 He smiled, her weight the gentlest pain on his sore chest. It was an easy pain to bear. His mind wandered aimlessly, and any worries he might have about the uncertain future, or about what Nisha might say about the night’s tenderness were lost to the warmth of her body against his.

 

 This time, he wouldn’t have to go anywhere.  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> All three chapters were completed and published on June 3rd, 2019. 
> 
> My thanks again to ErroneousOphelia.


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